And All I Could Say Was Hello
by BeachBum3668
Summary: There are many ways to communicate; even when you don't have words.


**Disclaimer: **These characters belong to Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox and were brought to life by the incredible talents of Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway. No infringement is intended or profit made from this work. I'm just borrowing them for a bit and I promise to put them back when I'm finished. Whether or not they'll ever be the same again is anybody's guess.

**Rating: PG**. This story was once described as' one of the most romantic MIRANDY stories ever written without any romance in it'. By that I took the meaning to be that there wasn't any smut. They were right. I left the "good parts" to the readers' imaginations.

**Distribution:** Do not archive or repost without author's permission.

**Feedback: **As always, constructive criticism and comments are welcome.

**Summary: **There are many ways to communicate, even when words fail us.

**A/N**: My apologies to all for the hokey method I was forced to use to simulate email addresses. Unfortunately, fanficdotnet does not allow anything that remotely resembles an internal link in any posted work. Please bear with me and use your imaginations. If you want to see the real (invented) email addys, they're available in the version on my web site.

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><p><strong>And All I Could Say Was Hello<strong>

The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was filled to capacity with gleaming linens, breath-taking floral arrangements and the assembled glitterati of New York publishing. The clatter of silverware subsided abruptly as the MC rose and addressed the crowd.

"And now we come to the highlight of the evening, the presentation of the prestigious Gold Quill Award for Excellence in Journalism. The Gold Quill is not an annual award, but given only at the discretion of the Foundation's Board of Governors for exceptional…"

Miranda Priestly sipped from her rapidly-cooling coffee and barely suppressed a shudder. Catching the eye of a nearby server, she pointed at her cup. In a moment the offending cup and saucer were whisked from in front of her and replaced with a pristine set. Searing hot, freshly brewed coffee was immediately poured and the server withdrew to the edge of the room. She acknowledged the superb service with a brusque nod before returning her attention to the dais.

"…and so it is with a great deal of pleasure that Governors of the Carlisle-Theissen Foundation announce the winner of the Gold Quill Award for Excellence in Journalism is the New York Mirror's Andrea Sachs."

The room exploded in cheers and applause as a spotlight hit one person sitting at a center table. It followed as the tall brunette rose from her place and slowly began making her way to the dais, stopping to shake a myriad of congratulatory hands on the way. As she mounted the steps to the stage, people began rising from their seats to salute the winner.

Miranda, for her part, sat stunned, unbelieving of what she had just heard. Then, realizing that she was becoming obvious by _not_ standing, she also rose to her feet and joined in the ovation, a just-caught-the-canary-like smile blooming on her face.

"Did you know anything about this?" she demanded of her dinner companion.

"Of course not. None of us knew that Andy was even being _considered._ I mean it was no secret that she was having a great year what with the Scripps' Pyle Award, but nobody even _speculated_ about a Gold Quill," replied her Fashion Director and Assistant Editor, Nigel Kipling. "But I recognize that look on your face. What do _you_ know that the rest of us don't?"

"Really, Nigel. Why do you think I gave her the reference? Did you honestly not expect our ugly duckling to become the swan we both saw in her? This is the fruition of our ultimate before-and-after story. And don't think for an instant that I don't recognize the Armani Privé gown we just got in The Closet. Good choice by the way; the color suits her." Her trademark glare silenced any further discussion on the matter.

The applause continued for another minute as the MC handed the gleaming statuette to the dark-haired beauty, shook her hand and indicated the podium and microphone. Smiling, she faced the cheering crowd and gestured for quiet. It took a few moments before the throng began to sink back into their seats and still longer for the applause to die out.

Andy looked down at the award in her hands and took a steadying breath. "Wow, this is really something. It's funny, you spend your childhood imagining winning something like this and saying 'I'd like to thank the Academy' but when it actually happens you can't think of a thing to say. For starters, I have to thank the Board of Governors for this tremendous honor. I'm still not sure what it is I've done to deserve it, but I certainly do appreciate it. And I need to thank my family, although I'm fairly sure my mom is still pretty ticked off that I turned down Stanford Law." The spotlight switched to an older couple at the center table who nodded and waved as the crowd laughed and applauded.

"I have to acknowledge the assistance, support and faith in me shown by the editorial staff at the Mirror. Without them behind me, I wouldn't have been able to write anything substantive, let alone do the kind of work that would qualify for _this_." The Mirror's Editors stood, gave a quick wave and dropped back into their seats.

"I know you're all eager to get down to some serious partying and the last thing you want to listen to is a long-winded acceptance speech, but I need to thank two other people." Warm brown eyes swept the room to unerringly find their targets. "When I first came to New York fresh out of Journalism School I just knew that I'd be hired at some paper in a couple of weeks and would be accepting my first Pulitzer in short order." The crowd laughed at the dream they'd all had at one time or another. "I don't think I'll be surprising any of you when I say it didn't quite work out that way. Instead, at the end of my cash and my wits, I found myself hired as an assistant at Runway Magazine by none other than Miranda Priestly herself.

"I was young, arrogant, full of myself and completely clueless. After making every mistake possible and inventing a few I'm sure she never even dreamed of, I found myself in tears and desperately looking for an ally after being taken to task by Miranda. And believe me, if you've never been taken to task by Miranda Priestly, you don't know what it is to be taken to task. So there I sat, crying and feeling sorry for myself, when my ally of choice did me the finest service any friend can do another: he looked me straight in the eye and showed me the error of my ways. Then he helped me change my attitude and start to really examine what we were doing.

"I discovered that the unflinching pursuit of excellence is never easy, rarely appreciated and always worth the effort. That if you truly love what you do the sacrifices necessary to achieve success may be painful but in the end make all the difference. I also discovered that what seems obvious to the casual observer isn't always the case and that loyalty and friendship can be displayed in many different ways but mean no less whatever their form.

"So my final thanks go to the Editor in Chief and Fashion Director of Runway Magazine, Miranda Priestly and Nigel Kipling respectively. Without them, there simply is no means by which I could have earned this award. Thank you, both of you. And once again, thank you all for this amazing honor. I'll spend the rest of my days trying to live up to it."

As the spot hit them, Nigel extended his hand to help Miranda rise to the deafening applause. From her position on the dais, Andy sketched a small wave to them as they took their seats again, shook hands with the MC and began making her way back to her seat, shaking hands with the board members at the head table as she did so.

Nigel turned to his boss with wide eyes. "Did you have any idea…?"

"None whatsoever. Who knows what that will come out of that girl's mouth? Now, about that Armani Privé? "

Nigel had the good grace to blush just a little as the noise level rose in the room and people headed for the service bars. "Well, she called me and asked if I could help her out; said she didn't have an evening gown and had a gala to attend. I had no idea she meant tonight." His attempt at looking innocent wouldn't have fooled a 3rd grader let alone the eagle-eyed editor of the world's leading fashion magazine.

Miranda gave one of her signature sniffs. "Well, it's good she looked presentable since she _did _mention Runway. It wouldn't do for her to look like a jumble sale reject while talking about working for us. At least you didn't need to alter it; she's kept her weight down. From Six to Swan in two short years. You know the red Marchesa would have worked too."

"That was my second choice."

Nigel was rewarded by an all-too-familiar glare as they rose to make their way to the coat check. Miranda was famous for leaving events on _her_ schedule, not the organizers'. As they neared the table where Andy was greeting well-wishers, Nigel was astounded when Miranda veered toward it.

Andy hugged her editor, Greg Hill and turned slightly away from him at a murmur from the group around the table. Surprising her not one bit, the crowd magically parted as Miranda and Nigel approached. Her warm brown eyes glittered with amusement as they met the oncoming laser-like blue ones and she wondered if she would escape a comment about her appearance.

Miranda reached her and leaned forward for the obligatory air kiss. Drawing back, she smiled and murmured a quiet greeting to the woman of the hour. Nigel leaned in and bussed her cheek with a grin as Miranda greeted several acquaintances in the group. Turning her attention back to Andy she offered her opening gambit.

"Congratulations, Andréa. The Gold Quill is a landmark achievement in a journalist's career. I'm sure this will mark a whole new chapter in yours."

"Thank you, Miranda. I couldn't have done it without your help."

Miranda's trademark sniff did not go unnoticed by Andy's parents. "Nonsense. We both knew your future did not lie in the fashion industry. It's just fortunate that fate allowed you to move into a position to stretch your journalistic legs a bit more."

"Fate had nothing to do with it, Miranda. You did. Your recommendation got me…"

Miranda gave an airy wave and one of the artificial laughs for which socialites were famous. "Ancient history. Well, Nigel and I were just on our way out and wanted to stop by and wish you well. I hope your career continues to flourish, Andréa. Good evening, everyone." Like the prow of a battleship cutting through ocean swells she swept through the throng toward the exits. Nigel dropped a quick kiss on Andy's cheek, murmured "Nice job, Six. I'll call you!" bid the others good evening and quickly followed. The New Yorkers in the group were well used to Miranda's abrupt departures but Andy's parents were another story. The moment they got Andy aside her mother started in.

"Well, wasn't that rude. Who does she think she is?"

Andy looked at her in disbelief. "Who does she think she is? I'll tell you who she is. Between Miranda, the Chairman of Carlisle-Theissen and the CEO of Gannett it's a toss-up who wields the most influence in New York. On the global stage it's no contest – Miranda wins hands down. Don't you understand that her decisions directly impact a trillion-dollar world-wide industry?"

"All I know is that she treated you like dirt for the eight months you worked for her!"

"Mom, for the last time; understand this. She didn't treat me any better or worse than anyone else who works for her. She demands excellence from her employees because she demands it from herself. That's how Runway has stayed on top all these years. Now deal with it and leave the past in the past."

Meanwhile, in the back of Miranda's Mercedes, the conversation revolved around the same principals. "My God, Nigel. I thought the naïve Midwesterner had adapted to life in New York. She certainly didn't show it."

"What do you mean? I thought she handled herself very well."

"Mentioning a _recommendation?_ In _that_ shark tank? Implying that _I _got her the job? What was she thinking? Winning the Ernie Pyle and the Gold Quill paints a target on her back for every jealous hack out there. All she needs to do is imply some sort of nepotism and those vultures will declare open season on her. They'll question everything she writes and question her abilities every chance they get. The next time you do lunch with her try and explain that concept, will you?"

Nigel looked at his long-time boss and friend with more than a hint of respect. 'Yes, ma'am!"

* * *

><p>Miranda closed and locked the door behind her, setting the alarm codes for the night. She turned off the hall lights and mounted the stairs to the third floor where the family bedrooms were. Seeing lights on under the doors of her daughters' rooms, she opened the door of a study that connected their bedrooms and leaned her head in.<p>

"Hello, darlings. I'm home."

Her thirteen-year-old twins Caroline and Cassidy looked up from their laptops with identical grins on their faces.

"Hey, Mom! How was the gala?"

"Long, dear, as they usually are. Aren't you two finished with your homework yet?"

"Just about. We were doing some research for a project we're thinking of doing. So was anybody there we'd know aside from Mr. Kipling?"

"Actually, there was. Do you remember Andréa? She used to be my assistant."

The girls exchanged devilish smiles. Carolyn answered for them both. "Yeah, Mom. We remember her. She's the one we actually talked into bringing The Book upstairs. And she left you during Paris Fashion Week."

Miranda frowned at them, remembering only too clearly. "Yes. Well. Andréa went to work at the Mirror when she left Runway. And tonight she won the Carlisle-Theissen Foundation's Gold Quill Award. It's a very prestigious journalism award."

Cassidy thought a moment. "Hang on…Andréa. _Andrea_. Mom is her last name Sachs?"

"Yes, darling, it is."

"_Andy Sachs_ was your assistant?" Cassidy's eyes nearly popped out of her head when Miranda nodded. "Oh man! That is so cool! Don't you remember, Caroline? She got the exclusive interview with the woman who blew the whistle at AGI."

"I remember something about that. There was, like, snow or a blizzard or something?"

"Yeah, Andy discovered the woman was hiding out in a private club in Aspen. So she went out there and followed her down the mountain on skis. When the woman went into an outdoor sauna, Andy waited in a snowstorm for her to come out. When she finally did, Andy looked like a Yeti and nearly had frostbite. The woman said anybody who was crazy enough to stake out a sauna in a blizzard deserved the interview. Andy blew the whole story wide open."

Caroline was with the program now. "Yeah, that's right. Her series of stories on people losing their homes while the investment firms that bankrupted everyone were still handing out seven figure bonuses were terrific. They won some award too."

"Then she broke the story on the payoffs during the Cyberdex buyout. _And_ she got the first interview with Anne Hathaway after she was mugged."

Miranda inserted herself into their exchange. "I had no idea you were so well-versed on the journalistic goings-on in New York, girls."

Cassidy tried to hide a grin. "I was kind of thinking about maybe joining The Daltonian staff next year so I sort of kept up with what was happening. Andy's name came up a lot."

"Well, no one is suggesting Andréa isn't having a successful year. Now go to bed you two. You've got lacrosse practice after school tomorrow and you'll be exhausted if you don't get a decent night's sleep. Off you go." The twins packed it in with surprisingly few complaints.

The next day as she and Nigel ate a working lunch in her office going over the latest proofs from their 'Tuscan Summer' shoot, Miranda proved yet again how she had earned her reputation for unpredictability.

"Have you spoken with Andrea yet?"

"Yes, she called first thing this morning to arrange to return the dress. We're having lunch on Tuesday."

"Well, if the only reason you're meeting is for her to hand you a garment bag don't bother. She can keep the gown. In fact, box up the red Marchesa and messenger it over to her. She'll need a couple of good gowns."

"Why, Miranda, I didn't know you cared."

The eyebrow arched and her glare appeared. "I don't. But the girl can't seem to keep her mouth shut about having worked for Runway and as long as she does we can't afford for her to look like a homeless waif. Put that silver Versace wrap in as well, that will compliment both dresses. She'll need something for when the weather gets cooler."

Nigel managed to suppress the smile he felt rising. You just never knew what Miranda would do next.

Andy was working at her desk the following morning when a messenger came in carrying a large, flat box. She signed for it in a daze as the other reporters in the bull pen crowded around hoping to see what was in it. Not thinking, Andy opened it and gasped in astonishment. The men in the room weren't terribly excited about the contents of the box, but the women certainly were. The red Marchesa gown had been the lynchpin of their evening wear collection and the fashion press had fallen all over itself praising it.

At the bottom of the box lay an embossed notecard. Picking it up, Andy recognized Miranda's handwriting and quickly scanned the note.

**Since you insist on announcing to the world at every opportunity that you used to work at Runway, you'll need to LOOK as though you used to work at Runway. This Marchesa will be a good compliment to the Armani Privé. The wrap will work with both dresses in the autumn. Nigel says to keep it simple and stick with Blahnik pumps. **

**Miranda**

Stunned, Andy reached for her phone and tried to call Nigel and find out what this was all about. The call went immediately to voicemail and she left a terse message to 'call me the hell back!' then, carefully fitting the lid back on the box, she set it on the worktable next to her and returned to her story. She still couldn't connect with him by lunch and spent an anxious twenty minutes wolfing down some souvlaki and wondering what the hell was going on. By 2:30 pm, when she couldn't raise him on his cell or at his desk, she was ready to start pacing and by 3:15 had given up trying to work. She packed up her laptop and notes, picked up the box and headed west toward the Elias-Clarke building.

The security guard apparently thought she was a minion from one of the fashion houses delivering some couture upstairs and handed her a visitors pass without a word. In a minute she was stepping off the elevators on the Runway floor and dodged into the first corridor to try and find Nigel. He wasn't in his office, but she took the opportunity to leave the box and her messenger bag there while she went in search of him.

She was successful after about ten minutes, running him to ground in the Art Department going over the proofs from a recent Cavalli shoot.

"Nigel, what the hell is going on? You blow me off when I try to return the gown you lent me and this morning I get a box from Runway with _another_ dress in it? Care to tell me why I'm suddenly the apparent owner of couture evening wear worth more than I make in six months?"

"Miranda thought the Armani Privé looked good on you and that the Marchesa would too. She just wants you to look good since you insist on telling anybody who'll listen that you worked for her."

"_Miranda_ wants me to look good? Have you been sniffing the rubber cement again?"

"I'm serious, Six. You know there's no telling what she'll do from one minute to the next. Apparently she wants you to look good and thinks that you'll need some formal wear. Judging from the reception you got the other night, she's probably right."

"This was _Miranda's_ idea? _Miranda Priestly_ decided to give me two gowns from The Closet?"

Neither of them had heard the soft footsteps approaching the doorway.

"And why can't I send some much-needed dresses to a former employee? Especially one who continues to publicly tout the fact that she was. Good heavens, Andréa, even you must realize that when you say things like that you need to _look_ as though you were employed here or the magazine suffers."

"Miranda, I can't…"

"Of course you can. We do it every day as well you should remember. Now that's the last I want to hear about it. I simply cannot have you traipsing all over Manhattan looking like a ragamuffin and making us look bad as well. Nigel, see to those Blahnik pumps, won't you? Good afternoon, Andréa."

Andy stood in stunned silence for a long moment as the woman who dresses the world turned on her Miu Mius and headed back to her office. Finally, she turned to her cohort in crime.

"Do you _ever_ get used to her?"

"I've worked for Miranda for nearly twenty years and I can honestly say that rare is the day she doesn't surprise me in some way. Want some free advice? Take the dresses. But before you do come with me to the Closet and let me get you the pumps she was talking about."

"Nigel, I can't accept these!"

"Why not? Let's just call it a late-arriving severance package. Just shut and do it will you? For once don't give me an argument? Miranda will have my head if you don't."

"How do I say thank you?"

He posed, touching his chin for emphasis. "Say thank you? Hmmm, let's see. You walk across the hall to her office and say THANK YOU MIRANDA"? How does that sound? Workable? But let's get those pumps first, okay? I don't want her to think I'm falling down on the job."

Ten minutes later Andy was carrying the dress box, the box of shoes and her messenger bag as she stepped through the doors to Miranda's office. The second assistant looked up at her and asked if she needed something.

"Yes, I'd like just a moment with Miranda."

"I'm afraid Miranda's day is fully booked. If you'd like I can arrange for an appointment later in…"

The quiet voice from the office silenced the young woman in mid-sentence.

"Come in, Andréa. I have a few minutes now."

Smiling at the assistant with just a hint of smirk, Andy entered the inner sanctum and walked to Miranda's desk.

"I just wanted to take a minute to say thank you for all of this. I'll never be able to repay you for any of it, the clothes least of all. I know you didn't want me talking about how your recommendation got me the position at the Mirror in front of everyone the other night. But you know as well as I do that it _did_. And I thank you for that every day when I get up and have that great job to go to."

"I'm glad that it worked out for you. As I said the other evening, we both knew your future didn't lie in the fashion industry."

"I know I didn't leave here in any kind of acceptable manner, but I want you to know that I value the time I spent here very much. And I'm sorry for how I left you; that was stupid and immature."

"It was, but we all survived. It's history now and best forgotten. But I'm afraid that those few minutes I had are up; Accessories is due any moment to show me their ideas for our fall issue."

"I'll be on my way then. But I did want to make sure I got a chance to thank you in person."

"And you've done so. Congratulations on your Gold Quill again; it's quite an honor."

"I know. And I appreciate you saying so." Awkwardly, Andy reached out to shake Miranda's hand, juggling the boxes and her messenger bag. An amused smile passed over the Editor's face as she extended her hand and briefly shook the younger woman's.

"How exactly do you plan on getting home with all that?"

"The same way I do every night, on the subway."

"I think we can do better than that. Hillary? Call downstairs and have one of the town cars drive Andréa home." Turning her attention back to the woman standing in front of her she smiled. "There, now I won't have to worry about you being mugged for your shoes. Good afternoon, Andréa."

"'Bye, Miranda; thanks again."

Hilary might not have been the friendliest person but she _was_ apparently efficient. The ride to her apartment in the town car was ever so much nicer than the subway.

* * *

><p>Ten days later Greg Hill summoned Andy to his office. When she walked in she was surprised to find the Arts and Leisure Editor there as well.<p>

"Sachs, we've got a problem. What do you know about the exhibit that's about to open at MOMA?"

"The Diane von Furstenberg Retrospective? It's a collection of her lines from every period in her career with historical annotations on the impact her work has had on not only haute couture but American culture as well. Not much other than that."

"Do you know who the prime mover in assembling the retrospective was? Who was the driving force behind the scenes to pull it all together?" asked the Arts Editor.

"Well, isn't it MOMA and their curators?"

"No, someone else came up with the idea and basically organized most of it. Someone who has stayed very much in the background and someone with whom we would very much like to get an interview. Someone who has rebuffed every attempt on the media's part to do so."

"And someone you think I might be able to get an interview with? Care to be a bit more specific, gentlemen?"

"Rumor is out that Miranda Priestly was the driving force behind the project. That's from MOMA staff. But she isn't giving any interviews about her involvement or interviews about anything. We want an interview with her to run in the special insert we're doing for the opening of the show. How she became interested, how she got things rolling, what was involved in reassembling all the lines. How it all came together. Even moreso if Miranda was the one who did it."

"And your people can't get close."

Greg nodded, "And our people can't get close."

"Greg, I told you when I took this job that I would never use my history at Runway to pull an end run for a story. I certainly won't use that history to corner Miranda Priestly for one."

"Sachs, we don't want to run an expose on her; this feature will be positive from the opening sentence. Listen, I'll give you full editorial control of it; all we'll do is correct the spelling and punctuation. You write the story how you want to write it. Say, three thousand words? You can even send a copy to Miranda before it runs as a courtesy. How's that for fair?"

"I get total content control?"

"Absolutely."

"All right, I'll take a run at it. But if she absolutely refuses then she refuses. I won't stalk her for your story."

"Fair enough. And thanks, Sachs. I appreciate this."

"Don't thank me yet, Greg. It's even money she'll throw me out on my ass." Andy rose and headed back to her desk to plot strategy. Twenty minutes later she had a lunch date with Nigel.

"Wow, Nigel. I've never eaten at '21' before."

"Well, they're right around the corner from the office and they take good care of us here. Besides, it isn't often I get out for a leisurely lunch so I thought we could enjoy it. And don't argue about who pays; today we're on Runway's dime."

"You won't be so nice when you hear why I needed to meet with you."

"I was afraid of something like this. Okay, fire away."

"Don't you want to order first?"

"We'll just get a drink. That way, if I'm required to throw it in your face and storm off it won't be nearly as expensive. Besides, if we get the unpleasantries out of the way first we'll have a better appetite for lunch. So, you were saying?"

"The curators at MOMA let it slip that Miranda was the driving force behind the Diane von Furstenberg retrospective that opens next week. I've been assigned to get an interview with her to run alongside the special coverage of the exhibit opening."

"Absolutely not. She'll mount my head on the wall of her office."

"Nigel, there's a story here. I know it. I went prowling around MOMA and everybody there says she was amazing when they were putting the show together. That she imported some of the dresses, bought others and generally moved heaven and earth to get the collection assembled. She gets nailed in the press so often I'd think she would welcome an interview that shows her generous side."

"I don't think she wants her generous side available to the public."

"C'mon, Nigel. Give me some help here."

"Call her up and ask her to lunch. Broach the subject directly to her. That's the best advice I can give you. And I didn't need to tell you that; you already knew it. So why are we here?"

"I'm terrified to interview her."

Nigel looked at Andy for a second then threw his head back and laughed out loud. "Excuse me?"

"I mean it, Nigel. She's this fashion titan, this larger than life figure whose influence goes around the globe. Who am I to interview her?"

"The reporter who broke the story of the AGI collapse. The reporter who uncovered the payoffs in the Cyberdex merger. Winner of the Ernie Pyle and Gold Quill awards."

"Lots of reporters have those kinds of credentials."

"Okay then, how about this? The woman who used to fetch her coffee. Who messengered her outfits all over hell's half acre so she always looked good. Who learned to anticipate her every need. Who probably still knows her better than almost anyone else. _That's_ who you are."

"And you don't think there's anything wrong with using that to get an interview?"

"This is New York, kid. _Everybody's_ looking for an angle. She won't think less of you if you're direct with her. What's the worst that could happen? She turns you down."

"She never speaks to me again." Andy muttered under her breath.

"What was that? I didn't hear you." Nigel said with a certain relish.

"Nothing."

"Oh, all right then. Because I thought I heard you say something about Miranda never speaking to you again. And that would be terrible, how?"

Andy narrowed her eyes and tried to glare at him. "If you've got something to say then spit it out."

He leaned forward with a wicked grin. "_Love to!_Isn't it about time you started getting over Miranda? I mean, two years is a long time to carry a torch. And way too long for your average boss crush to last."

"What…what are you talking about?" Andy tried to feign innocence.

"The thing you've always had for Miranda. That indefinable little something that always made Emily jealous as hell." Nigel wasn't buying it for an instant.

"I don't know what you're…"

"Don't you _dare _try that with _me_. I watched you for the eight months you worked there. I watched you start to realize just how remarkable Miranda is. I watched you fall in love with her. Why do you think you overreacted to what she did in Paris? Hell, I was the one she supposedly betrayed and I'm still with Runway. But you stormed off because your hero suddenly seemed to have feet of clay. It's time you admit the truth."

Andy looked terrified. "I can't…I can't! I mean it was one thing while I was working for her. I could tolerate all her comments. But now? If she got all… _Miranda _with me it would break my heart. I can't, Nigel. I can't risk it. It would destroy me."

He leaned back in his chair and studied her for a long moment. "You know, there's a reason why people risk everything for love. Because sometimes it's worth risking everything for. Isn't Miranda worth risking everything for?"

"Of course she is! But she doesn't know I exist! Until a couple of weeks ago we hadn't spoken for almost two years."

"Right. And that's why she just gave you two of the season's most stunning evening gowns. Because she doesn't know you exist. That's why she gave you the reference that got you the job at the Mirror. Because she doesn't know you exist. Did you know she reads the Mirror every morning? Ordered a subscription a week after you were hired. Yeah, she does that for all the assistants that leave her employ. And speaking of assistants who leave her employ, did you know it took nearly six months before we found one that was acceptable to her?I must have heard 'Andréa would never do that' a hundred times in those six months. And I doubt she was even aware she was saying it. Yeah, she doesn't know you exist. Get real, Six. She's never forgotten you either. So what would be the harm in dipping one little toe into the water just to try it?"

Andy managed to get a grip on herself and shake off her slack-jawed disbelief at his words. "I… are you crazy?"

He leaned across the table and covered her hands with his. "No, I'm not. Two years is far too long to carry a torch. I'm your friend and I'm Miranda's friend and I'm telling you that if you don't take this chance you'll always regret it. Because deep inside you, you know this just might be the one. The one that lasts a lifetime." Try as she might, Andy had no response.

Back at the office Andy took a deep breath and dialed the number she still knew by heart. Thankfully, her hand only shook a little.

"Miranda Priestly's office."

"Em? It's Andy. Would it be possible for me to speak to Miranda for a minute?"

" Just a moment, let me check. She's got a couple of the ad reps in with her now." Emily put the call on hold and approached the double doors to the inner sanctum. She waited a moment until Miranda looked up at her questioningly.

"I'm sorry, Miranda, but do you have a minute for Andy Sachs?"

Miranda frowned slightly and looked down at the open folder on her desk, at the reps seated in front of her and finally back at Emily.

"Tell her I'll call her back in a few minutes. She's at the office?" Emily nodded and stepped back to her desk to relay the message.

Seven of the longest minutes in history later, Andy's phone rang. The Caller ID read "RUNWAY MAGAZINE". Andy took another deep breath.

"Andy Sachs."

"Good afternoon, Andréa. You wished to speak with me?"

"Yes, I did. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly."

"Not at all. What's on your mind?"

"Miranda, we're doing a special insert on the opening of the Diane von Furstenberg retrospective at MOMA and I want to interview you for that feature."

"Why ever would you want to do that?"

"Because I did my homework and I discovered that you are the driving force behind the exhibition. And I want your thoughts on the importance of it and why you spearheaded it."

"I'm sorry, you know my policy on interviews."

"Miranda, come on. Like I said, I did my homework; I know how deeply you're involved and what you went through to bring this about. Our readers deserve to know how valuable these collections are not only in terms of fashion but culturally. That story deserves to be told and who better to tell it than you?"

"Andréa, I've done my homework as well. I know where some of your stories have come from. I'm not getting naked and doing an interview with you in the hot tub."

Andy couldn't resist a wicked grin, glad that Miranda couldn't see her face. "It was a sauna, not a hot tub."

There was a moment's hesitation and then Andy swore she heard a quiet snicker. "Who has editorial control? And what kind of input do I have on the story?"

"I have editorial control. I won't lie for you but other than that, if you don't like something I'll rewrite it until you do. How's that sound?"

"Very well, Andréa. Meet me at MOMA Thursday at 5:30. We can make a final walkthrough of the exhibit and I'll give you your interview."

"Thank you, Miranda. I really appreciate this."

Miranda laughed lightly. "Don't thank me yet, we're a long way from hard copy for your editors."

But she was wrong. The interview went smoothly as they strolled through the galleries of the iconic designer's creations. Miranda was, as Andy expected, a virtual encyclopedia of each of the designs and how it had been created. But she also showed why she had achieved and maintained her position at the apex of the fashion industry. She could see the larger picture: the impact on society. How concepts as simple as a jersey wrap dress could change the way women thought of themselves and revolutionize an industry from high fashion down to ready-to-wear. Not once, but twice. It was that sense of history; that broadness of vision that made her _the_ Miranda Priestly. Suddenly Andy knew how to slant her story.

She left Miranda on the MOMA steps and hurried home to start her article. She grabbed some Chinese carryout and a six pack of ale on the way and by midnight had put together 3500 words about the exhibit, what it meant to women and fashion and how Miranda had brought it about. She popped the top off the 4th beer and kicked back to proof it. Twenty minutes later she was finished. She knew in her gut she had a winner.

She copied the file into .rtf format and emailed it to Miranda. Then she fired off an email to her editor informing him that the article was done and she was waiting for Miranda's approval before filing. Then, feeling like she'd earned her keep, she showered and turned in to sleep the sleep of the just.

She's barely gotten through her overnight email the next morning when her phone rang. Sure enough, the Caller ID again read "RUNWAY MAGAZINE".

"Andy Sachs."

"Good morning, Andréa."

"Good morning, Miranda. How did you like the article?"

"I expected a feature on the exhibition, not 'Ode to Miranda Priestly'."

"It's not an Ode to Miranda and you know it. There's plenty about the exhibition. But people need to see it the way you see it. That it's about so much more than just dresses. They need to look at it through your eyes. And in order to do that, they need to understand how you see it. So, yes, there's going to be a lot about Miranda Priestly in there as well."

"Well, I suppose it could have been worse. Go ahead and run it." In Miranda-speak this meant that she was delighted with the article.

"I'm glad you approve," Andy laughed.

"Just don't think that I'm going to become your go-to source every time somebody has a question about hem lengths," Miranda said archly.

"Don't worry. I'll do what I always do. I'll just call Nigel."

"File your article, Andréa," Miranda sniffed, "Will you be attending the opening tonight?"

"Unfortunately, no. I've got to get some background on something else I'm working on and tonight was the only time we could meet. But I'm sure that someone from the Mirror will be there."

"With your pre-Nigel appalling taste, no doubt. Enjoy your evening, Andréa."

"You, too. Uh, Miranda, one more thing before you go?"

"Yes?"

"Would you maybe like to have lunch some time just to, you know, get together? No interviews, no ulterior motives? Just a… a friendly lunch?" Andy thought her heart was going to pound through her chest. And then as the silence on the other end stretched on her heart nearly stopped.

"Uh, Miranda?"

"Yes, I'm checking my schedule. Next week looks full but I may be able to switch… just a moment…" Andy could hear quiet voices even though Miranda had covered the mouthpiece with her hand.

"Andréa? How about next Friday at 1:00? The Sea Grill at Rockefeller Center?"

"I'll be there. And, Miranda? Thank you, I really appreciate this."

"Appreciate what? The interview I gave you or the fact that I'm willing to have lunch with you?"

"I, uh… well, uh… both I guess."

"For someone who makes a living with words you're not doing too well stringing them together right now."

Andy managed a strangled laugh. "I suppose not. Well, I don't want to keep you. I'll see you next Friday."

"Have an enjoyable week, Andréa." The phone clicked as the receiver was hung up.

And just like that Andy had a date with Miranda Priestly.

* * *

><p>The next week flew by and Friday morning Andy was so nervous she couldn't sit still at her desk. She'd changed her outfit four times before she was satisfied with the way she looked. Both Lily and Doug had called with moral support; they'd been just as aware of how she felt as Nigel had and had been giving her merry hell about it since she'd left Runway. The problem was their ideas of moral support involved teasing encouragement which did nothing for Andy's nerves. On her fourth trip of the morning to the Ladies' Room she discovered, to her dismay, that she was indeed capable of a major flop sweat. It was basically downhill from there.<p>

Andy managed to arrive ahead of Miranda at the restaurant. Afterward, she could remember being seated at a prime table and of watching Miranda enter the room. Beyond that, everything was fuzzy; she had no clear memory of anything that was said or done during the meal. When Lily and Doug called her for a ritual postmortem all she could do was stammer that she was pretty sure Miranda had asked her if she was well at one point in the meal. Other than that, all Andy could manage was to pray she hadn't embarrassed herself beyond reason. It took Doug and Lily four full days to convince her to give it another shot.

Miranda, for her part had noticed that Andréa seemed somewhat withdrawn but had just assumed she'd been having a bad morning at work. When the young woman had haltingly asked her how _her_ morning had been, Miranda was more than willing to recount every incident of incompetence that had delayed an upcoming shoot or required several of her staff to jump through hoops to correct. Later, back at the office, it crossed Miranda's mind that Andréa had looked at her somewhat like a hare looks at a coiled cobra, but since that was not a completely unknown expression in her presence she didn't give it much thought. So when Andréa called her back a week and a half later to see if they could schedule another lunch, she readily agreed.

This time they met at a small out-of-the-way deli Andy had discovered. For her money the french onion soup was the best in the city. Miranda agreed and aside from Andy not saying more than fifty words during the whole meal it was a success. This time, Andy was _certain_ that Miranda had asked her if she was quite well and could even remember that she had stammered some sort of "bad day at work" excuse which seemed to pacify her former boss. By the time she'd returned home that night Andy had developed a whole new appreciation for high school boys and the courage it took for them to ask girls out. Of course, raging hormones helped but if Andy didn't hold up her end of a conversation in the very near future Miranda was going to think early onset Alzheimer's ran in her family. For her part, Miranda just assumed that Andréa was having a difficult time at work and was more than happy to carry the conversation. In her position there was never a dearth of incompetence to deplore and Andréa was at least a sympathetic audience. And what did it matter if there were silences during their meal? They had worked together long enough that they were comfortable in silence together.

That night after dinner the twins decided that they wanted to do their homework near Miranda and 8:30 pm found three of the four Priestly females huddled over their laptops in the downstairs study. The only reason that the fourth Priestly female wasn't huddled over a laptop as well was that Caroline and Cassidy had never found one with a keyboard large enough to accommodate Patricia's paws. So, the St. Bernard had to be content with dozing at the feet of her favorite humans. Miranda tuned out the twins' chatter as she reviewed the feature articles for the next three months.

"Well, you saw him. My God, I thought Zack had swallowed his tongue."

"He couldn't even manage to say his own name right. It's a good thing Tracy really likes him. Now way she'd have agreed to go out with him otherwise!"

Something registered dimly in Miranda's mind at that exchange. She looked up at her daughters. "What was that, Bobbsey?"

Cassidy looked a little surprised that her mother was paying any particular attention. "Oh, Zack Mabry. He's a boy in our class and he's had the worst crush on Tracy Palazzo. You know, the cheerleader? When he finally worked up his courage to ask her out and he couldn't even talk he was so nervous. All he could do was stammer and stutter. I said it was a good thing that Tracy likes him because she told him yes, even though… "

_He's had the worst crush on… He couldn't even talk he was so nervous… All he could do was stammer and stutter._

Miranda's eyes widened as realization hit. Nervous. Stammering. _Crush._ Could it be? Was it possible that Andréa Sachs, ace reporter for the New York Mirror, had a crush on her? She briefly thought back to Andréa's tenure as her second assistant. Nothing came to mind that would indicate a bent in that direction and she seemed to remember some short order cook that Andréa had been living with. Rather swarthy if memory served. But that didn't necessarily mean anything. Miranda had been married twice and that had never silenced the quiet voices inside her from wondering what a woman would feel like in her arms. Oh she had never acted on it; always aware of what the press would make of such an item. But that didn't change the fact that try as she might, Miranda had never been able to fully suppress those secret dreams.

The more she thought about it the more she began to believe that Andréa did, indeed, have a bit of a crush. A puckish sense of humor made her wonder what would happen if she pushed things just a little. Would Andréa rise to the occasion or suffer a complete meltdown? A quick quirk of her lips to keep from grinning outright and Miranda made her decision. Bringing up her schedule she promptly canceled her dinner plans for the next evening and made a reservation at one of her favorite bistros. The ambiance of the place favored the romantic with privacy a primary concern. More than one member of New York's A-List had indulged in extracurricular activities there; how safely was anybody's guess.

When she'd secured her favorite banquette she called Andréa's cell phone. Lying blithely that her dinner plans had just fallen through she invited her former employee to join her the following evening. When Andréa readily agreed, Miranda gave her the name and address of the bistro and bid her good night. She'd set the scene, now all she had to do was put the pieces in motion. Smiling to herself, Miranda admitted that she hadn't had this much fun in a long while.

The next night Andy arrived at Le Coin Perdue before Miranda and was escorted to their table. It sat in the pre-eminent position on the floor but was shielded from curious eyes by a discreetly-placed screen, affording the table's diners complete privacy. The service was excellent; Miranda rarely dined more than once at any establishment where it wasn't. The wait staff had barely brought Andy her water when Miranda arrived and was seated. Andy took one exquisitely long look at her dinner companion and wondered how she was going to make it through the meal without suffering a heart attack.

Miranda was simply breath-taking. An off-the-shoulder silk blouse put acres of milky shoulders and décolletage on display, its plum color a perfect complement to Miranda's complexion. The elegant neck was emphasized by a simple string of pearls and pearl studs gleamed at Miranda's ears. Judging from the way Andréa's eyes couldn't seem to focus anywhere but on her chest, Miranda deemed her ensemble a success. She thought idly that had she been there with a man, he wouldn't be able to leave the table without baring ample evidence of his interest. Andrea didn't have to contend with erections, but her irregular breathing and shaking hands gave her away just as visibly.

Miranda was merciless, peppering their conversation with small smiles and the occasional brief touch on Andréa's arm or hand. The young woman managed to participate in the conversation but each time Miranda touched her she stopped speaking in mid-sentence only to shake herself mentally a few moments later and continue. Miranda's flirtation had accomplished what she'd set out to; Andréa seemed lost within their own little world during that memorable meal.

When they parted, Miranda leaned in and kissed the air around Andréa's ears, bid her good night and settled into the back seat of her town car. On the way home she pondered what had just happened. She'd set out to flirt with Andréa and she'd had a marvelous time doing so. It was obvious from her companion's response that her initial guess about Andréa's crush on her had been correct. Now all she had to do was to decide what to do about it.

Miranda's dreams had always driven her. She had fled to New York the day after her high school graduation never to look back. She waited tables, swept the cutting room floors in the fashion houses, worked as a hotel maid, anything to finance her education. Her degree in art was the first solid stepping-stone to achieve what she had dreamt of as long as she could remember. She took the lowest-paying job at Elias-Clarke and worked harder and longer than anybody else as she clawed her way up. Sensing a kindred spirit, she and Nigel Kipling had formed a bond when it became apparent to them that they shared similar visions. Both genuinely loved the female form. Granted, Nigel was gay, but his appreciation for line and style was grounded in that fact: he loved the way women looked. Miranda would never confess it to another soul, but she felt the same way. Fashion was more than just clothing; to her it was homage to the beauty of women. That simple fact is what set the two of them apart from their peers and elevated them to the rarified heights held by only a few: Chanel, Valentino, Givenchy and Dior. That vision and love of the female form is what gave Miranda Priestly her unerring sense of style.

Her love of the female form had begun early in her life admiring the well-dressed women who came into her mother's small shop for their alterations. She had never acted on the feelings, realizing instinctively that to do so could well stymie her climb to success. She had married because that was what was expected and while the twins were the lights of her life, by and large she had left her husbands behind without a single regret. But now she had achieved everything she had ever dreamed of. She was wealthy beyond her wildest expectations, her place in the world of Fashion was immutable and 19th century mores were a thing of the past. If she were to become involved with another woman it wouldn't be a major event. Oh, there would be a kerfuffle in the press for a few weeks, but her publicists were the best in the business and their ability to spin was unquestioned. The press would leave them alone in fairly short order.

How would the twins react? They were right on the cusp of their teenage years but had never indicated anything but the most liberal of ideas about relationships. Miranda knew of at least two of their friends who had same-sex parents and it didn't bother the girls a bit. If she approached them honestly Miranda had no doubts that she could win them over to the idea. Of course, she would have to bring the girls and Andréa together carefully so as not to spook any of the parties. That would require some deft handling, but Miranda Priestly was known for her deft handling. Well, that and her refusal to tolerate failure in any form.

By the time Roy was opening the back door to help her out of the car Miranda had made her decision. She was fifty years old; she had earned the right to be happy. And for the first time in a very, very long time, she believed that she had the means to achieve that happiness. Letting herself into the townhouse and locking up behind herself she summoned the twins into her study.

"Girls, we need to talk."

* * *

><p>The next few weeks were a blur for Andy. As autumn approached, she and Miranda continued to have regular lunch and dinner dates and Miranda had invited her to the townhouse for dinner several times. Andy wasn't sure what to make of things because Miranda never acted any differently around her, but now there seemed to be a sense of intimacy between them that she'd never sensed before. The twins even seemed semi-human. To confuse Andy even further, they began to <em>do <em>things with the twins. To her surprise, they were not the spawn of Satan as she had previously thought, but once you got to know them a bit, were actually kind of fun. Which was all well and good, but didn't give Doug or Lily the detailed information they constantly demanded on the status of her relationship with Miranda. To put it bluntly, Andy didn't have a clue what was happening, but was having a good time despite that.

Finally, in response to a threat of bodily harm from Lily if she didn't decide what the hell was going on, Andy decided that she needed to ask Miranda a few pointed questions. True to form Andy managed to blurt it out one Saturday at the Bronx Zoo. She and Miranda were sitting on a bench by the Snow Leopard enclosure watching as the twins interrogated a Zoo keeper about the status of the natural habitats of the various species of big cats housed there. They were laughing at the girls' fierce protectiveness of the animals when Andy opened her mouth and a question fell out.

"Miranda?"

"Yes?"

"What are we…? I mean, what's… Miranda, are we _dating?_"

Miranda regarded her with a hint of a smile. Her blue eyes weren't at all icy. "I believe we are. Is that a problem?"

"I… no, not at all." Andy continued to watch the girls for a few moments longer then took a deep breath and slid her hand across the inches that separated her from Miranda to hesitantly touch her hand. To her eternal joy, Miranda interlaced their fingers without missing a beat.

_I'm holding hands with Miranda. Oh my God, I'm __**dating**__ Miranda Priestly! _

That evening as she was getting ready to go home, Andy decided to test the waters. Summoning all her courage she turned to face Miranda at the door as they said goodnight.

"Thanks for dinner and for the outing. I had a good time."

"I'm just glad you were able to join us. The girls were determined to do this project for their environmental studies program and I knew they'd want to be all over the Zoo. I was afraid it would be too difficult to keep an eye on them by myself."

"Delighted to help out." Andy grinned, "And Mrs. Wegmann's pizza is always a good incentive too. I'll never willingly miss that."

"Ah, that's good to know. Now I've got the bait to dangle if I need you to come over for some reason."

"You don't need bait, just ask. I'll be here as fast as the subway can carry me."

"Speaking of the subway be careful going home. I'm always sure that every pervert in the city is hanging out in the subway at night just waiting for you to arrive on the platform."

"I'll be careful, don't worry. Oh, and tell Cassidy I'll call her with Greg's answer on the student internship we talked about."

"I will. Now you need to hurry or you'll miss your train."

"Okay, I'm outta here. Miranda, I…" Andy never really knew where the courage came from, but one second she was saying goodnight and the next her lips were brushing Miranda's. A long moment later she laid claim to them in earnest. To her amazement, Miranda's hand came up to touch her cheek as they kissed and both women leaned into each other savoring the moment.

When they eased apart, Andy couldn't drag her eyes away from Miranda's. Finally, she fumbled for the doorknob brushed another quick kiss on Miranda's lips and whispered "Good night." She was three blocks up on Lexington before she realized she was even moving.

_I kissed Miranda and she kissed me back! How lucky am I?_

To Andy's relief, neither she nor Miranda seemed in any rush to leap into bed. Both were content to move slowly as if in acknowledgement that what they had together was special and not to be jeopardized by precipitous action. That wasn't to say that making out with Miranda didn't leave her weak in the knees; nothing was further from the truth. But both of them had been deeply hurt in the past and needed to build a solid foundation of trust and intimacy. For that reason, they were content to move slowly. And, as is typical, that's when the bottom fell out of their world.

Miranda stared at her in disbelief. "Are you mad? I cannot fathom how you can even be _considering_ this! It's insane!"

"I understand how you feel, but at least _try _to look at it from my perspective? I'll never be a top-tier journalist if I don't go overseas. A foreign assignment is the big leagues, Miranda."

"Foreign assignment? _Milan_ is a foreign assignment. _London_ is a foreign assignment. _Beijing_ is a foreign assignment. _Afghanistan_ is a goddam war zone!"

Patiently, Andy tried again. "I put in for the assignment months ago. Long before we met again at the banquet. There was a lottery at the Defense Department to select the reporters that would be embedded with the Marines. I hadn't heard anything so I assumed that I hadn't been selected. I just found out this morning that I had."

"And just like that you're leaving? For _three months?_ Without discussing it with anyone? Are you out of your mind?"

"Miranda, we're discussing it now. I thought you of all people would be supportive of my career."

"I _am_ supportive. But I would very much like to have you alive to actually _have_ a career. Reporters die in war zones, Andréa. Have you forgotten that? Why do you want to take this insane risk?"

"Because the risk is worth it. You'll never be regarded as a world-class journalist if you don't cover a war. That's always been true. Well, I want to be a world-class journalist. I've been given the opportunity to go to Afghanistan and get the story of what's going on over there first hand and I'm taking it. I'm going, Miranda. I'd much rather go knowing I've got you and the girls to come back to, but if I don't then so be it." Andy's sudden resolve surprised even her.

Miranda angrily filled out the credit card slip and signed it. Gathering her purse and folio she stood and glared at Andy. "This discussion is not over by a long shot. I'm having dinner with two of the Elias-Clarke board members tonight. I'll call you when I get home."

Andy slumped back in her chair and shook her head. There was no reasoning with Miranda when she got like this and Andy only had three weeks to calm her down before she would be on a plane to Afghanistan. Miranda didn't calm down that night or the next or the next. Finally on Sunday afternoon Miranda called her and brusquely asked if she could join them for dinner at the townhouse that evening.

When Andy arrived the twins were somber. Obviously they had some idea of what was going on and were worried that the outcome might not be pleasant. Andy hugged them both and whispered not to worry, that she and their mother would work everything out. Dinner was quiet and they adjourned to the sitting room for dessert. Miranda arranged herself on the settee with the girls which forced Andy to sit opposite them on the loveseat.

Andy took the lead. "Miranda, please try to understand. This is important to me and important to my career. I'm not doing it to defy you or to anger you. It's what I need to do for me."

To her surprise, the twins both looked at Miranda who appeared a bit chagrined. "The girls informed me this afternoon that I was being a horse's ass about all of this. They reminded me that were the situations reversed I would expect you to go along without question and that it isn't fair of me to not give you the same courtesy I would demand. So I will attempt to accept this as an inevitable part of your career path and support you as best I can."

Andy shot a look of profound gratitude to the twins. "Thank you, Miranda. And thank you girls for explaining things to your mother in a way I couldn't."

Miranda sighed and appeared to gather herself. "So, I guess this is when you explain the details to us so we all understand exactly what's going to happen." Andy dug the information packet out of her messenger bag and settled on the couch between the twins to explain everything she knew.

The next two weeks flew by with Andy running around like crazy trying to get everything done she needed to before a three month absence. Her assignment was scheduled to run from the first week in October through mid-January. Missing Christmas did not endear her to either her parents or Miranda but there was nothing she could do about it. Despite the exhausting schedule, she and Miranda managed several quiet dinners alone and even managed to touch on their budding relationship without fighting. The night before she was to depart they met at Andy's deli for onion soup.

Deciding that long hair was an open invitation to lice in areas where sanitation was iffy at best, Andy'd had her chestnut hair cropped short the day before. Miranda had not been consulted and was _not _amused. Andy knew it would take some time for her to get used to the new look, but just wished for once things would be easy for them. No such luck. At least they were still speaking to each other.

"Miranda, I… "

"No, Andréa. Please. No major declarations. Emotions are running too high right now. Neither of us needs to be saying something that might not be true in the cold light of day. Let's just keep things as they are."

Andy could understand why Miranda was saying that. She was frightened of what could happen. Andy was frightened too, but one thing she was certain of was that her feelings for Miranda weren't going to change. Somehow she would just have to convince Miranda of that fact while she was gone. In the meantime, a little humor wouldn't hurt matters any.

"Okay. So shall we say we'll meet somewhere in exactly sixteen weeks? I'll be there if you'll be there."

Miranda stared at her as if she had lost her mind. "Do you mean meet at the top of the Empire State Building like some dreadful movie remake?"

Andy grinned from ear to ear. "You're reading my mind. Say 6:00 pm? The Observation Deck?"

Miranda just shook her head. "You've been watching too many reruns. We will not be meeting somewhere: the girls and I will be at the airport waiting at the gate for you. Speaking of which, what time do you want us to pick you up in the morning?"

"You don't need to pick me up. I'll run by the townhouse and say goodbye to the girls then take a cab to the airport."

"You'll do no such thing. Roy will pick you up in the morning and we will all have breakfast together. Then the girls and I will accompany you to the airport and see you off. They'd have my head if we did anything different. Honestly, Andréa." Andy reached across the table to grasp Miranda's hand.

"Miranda, I know we said…" A soft finger on her lips silenced her as Miranda leaned close.

"Shhh. I know. We'll discuss it when you get home. Agreed?"

Andy raised her hand and gently kissed Miranda's fingers. "Agreed."

Everything went fine the next morning. Breakfast was as light-hearted as Andy could make it. The hugs at the airport were as fierce as possible with Andy promising all the Priestlys that she would be careful and that three months wasn't that long. The twins only cried a little as Andy turned away from them and walked down the long corridor to her gate. The ride back into Manhattan was very quiet. When the car pulled up in front of the Dalton School Miranda hugged both girls before they left the car.

"She'll be okay, won't she Mom?"

"She'll be just fine, Caroline. You wait and see."

Miranda maintained her own iron self-control until she entered her office. Then, even before taking a sip of her latte, she walked into her private bathroom, locked the door and abruptly sat down on the toilet. The tears she's held at bay since the night before finally broke free and Miranda sobbed as she clutched herself, overwhelmed with fear for her Andréa.

"Please," she whispered to any god who would listen, "_Please_…"

* * *

><p><strong>From: <strong>andyatnymirror

**To:** sachsfamilyathome;mirandaatrunway; cassidyatdalton; carolineatdalton ;nigelatrunway; emilyatrunway; lilyatgallery; dougatoffice

**Date: **4 October 1735hr

**Subject: **I made it!

Hey Everybody! –

Rest easy, I've arrived at my assigned firebase. I can't say exactly where I'm at, but I am allowed to tell you it's in the area of Baghran in western Kandahar province. I'm imbedded with the 3rd BN of the 6th Marines here and it was a hell of a trip, let me tell you. Commercial jet to Germany, MAC flight to Kabul, C-130 to Kandahar and UH-1 Huey helicopter to the firebase.

What can I tell you about everyday life here? For starters, there are no laundry facilities. We wash our clothes in the river next to camp. Not to be indelicate, but it looks like we'll also be bathing in the river for at least a while longer. Mobile shower units that were supposed to be delivered had to be cancelled because the water purification system we were supposed to get was diverted to another unit in the capital. So water buffaloes will continue to deliver our H20. Just so you guys don't google the wrong thing, a water buffalo is a truck with a large water tank on the back. They drive one up to us from Kandahar every day. Sometimes we have to wait an extra day or so if the Taliban are shelling the road and that gets a little hairy. We have to ration water then because the river water can't be drunk.

The troops I'm imbedded with are a great bunch. As a journalist I don't carry a weapon, but the CO insisted that I learn to fire an M4 carbine. So, each morning I get marksmanship lessons from the unit's Gunny (that's Gunnery Sergeant to you civilians). _He's_ decided that I need to know how to use a sidearm too, so I'm learning how to break down and reassemble an M9 Beretta. I don't like guns, but I can understand the necessity for knowing how to use them in these parts. BTW, I kicked _ass _with the grenade launcher!

Under the heading of "Best Laid Plans etc" I won't be using my satellite phone and laptop as much as I'd planned. Electricity to the firebase is sporadic; the lines get cut by insurgents as fast as the engineers can string them. On generators, electricity is strictly limited to communications and combat readiness only. Nobody gets to recharge their laptops etc. I'll do my best to keep things charged and send regular emails to you all, but don't get too upset if a couple of days go by between them.

Well, it's almost chow time. The field kitchen here does a great job feeding all of us. Nobody's late for chow, especially me. You know how I love to eat! I'm even looking forward to the MREs we'll eat in the field.

Hugs to everybody. I'll send pictures of me in my camouflage and kevlar next time!

Andy

* * *

><p><strong>From: <strong>andyatnymirror

**To:** carolineatdalton; cassidyatdalton

**Date: **15 October 2352hr

**Subject: **Kandahar Province

Hi guys!

Glad you enjoyed the photos of GI Andy. Cassidy, the thing on my back in the second photo is called a Camelbak. It's the hydration system the Marines use – you literally carry your water on your back. The tube sticking out over my shoulder is how you drink.

So, on to Kandahar Province. I don't know how much information I'll be giving you two that you can't find out doing research, but I'll try. I'm in western Kandahar province which is considered the 'tropical' part of Afghanistan. Temps during the day are in the high 80s this time of year and at night it drops into the 40s. By the time I leave in mid January, the range will be 40s during the day and as low as the 20s at night. The whole country is as dry as can be so rain isn't a problem.

What _is_ a problem is wind. The whole landscape around here looks like something out of a science fiction, post-apocalypse movie. Nothing but dust and rocks and wind-blasted hills. The winds blow hard out of the northwest, right off the Hindu Kush and there's nothing to slow it down once it gets to the highlands. The winds are like being rubbed hard with sandpaper; the grit scours your skin and your eyes and anything that's exposed to it. We have to be careful when we're out in the field to make sure we can cover up if the wind kicks up bad. Plus, during the spring and summer there's something called a simoom which is a localized cyclone that can raise the temperature as high as 140F in a matter in a couple of minutes. People that get caught in them die. I'm really thankful it's past their most common time.

The people in this area live in abject poverty. Most do not have running water, or decent sanitation. They try and scrape a subsistence living from farming just like their ancestors have done for hundreds of years. It is not uncommon for a man to be born, live and die in the same village, never having travelled outside its boundary.

Schools are few and far between and mostly run by fundamentalist imams for the young boys in the villages. Since the fall of the Taliban lots of positive changes have happened for women, but only in the urban areas. Most of the village girls receive only a rudimentary education if at all. Textbooks are near impossible to come by and so the bulk of the teaching is done from the Koran. I can't help but think that this cycle of poverty, ignorance and fundamentalism is the main reason most of this country looks like something out of the middle ages.

The fundamentalist Islam being taught in the area is bad for the US troops here too. The villagers don't trust us because they're told by their imams that we're the great Satan. They depend on us to keep the Taliban insurgents from destroying what little their villages have, but they hide their families away from us and won't allow our medics to help even in emergencies. It's not a good situation and nobody can see much hope for it improving any time soon.

There is a new pilot program that will be rolled out in a couple of weeks and I'll let you know how that goes. The idea is to send out female Marines who are sensitive to Islamic mores to talk to the women of the villages. The hope is that women will not be seen as a threat to the women and children like our male troops are. I'm supposed to go out with them on some of their patrols and I'll let you know how it goes.

Now for the fun part. There is a beastie in the region known far and wide as _the camel spider_. These suckers are four or five inches long and the bite they can give you is really nasty. Fills with pus in less than a day and the infection is harder than heck to get over. Every night before we crawl in our bunks we check them thoroughly for camel spiders. And we keep our boots in our bunks with us so they don't crawl into them. If there's trouble and you have to get dressed in a hurry you don't want to stick your foot into your boot with a camel spider in it. Needless to say, they are a common target for small arms practice.

Well, that's all I've got time for right now. I hope it gives you two something to go on for you project. If you need more specific information let me know and I'll try to find it out for you.

Take care of your Mom! Bye now,

Andy

* * *

><p><strong>From: <strong>andyatnymirror

**To:** nigelatrunway

**Date: **30 October 1849hr

**Subject: **Please!

Nigel –

Accessorize? With what you dingbat – a brightly colored scarf so the snipers can zero in on me from even further away? Yeah, _that's_ a good idea. Thanks, but I'll just stick to my rock-colored boots and rock-colored cammies and rock-colored kevlar helmet.

Seriously, Nigel, I am developing a deep respect for the troops stationed here. Their task is thankless; they chase phantom insurgents into dangerous hills on a daily basis. They get nothing but distrust from local villagers. Living conditions are rough at best. The land around the firebase is like a moonscape; it is the very picture of desolation. Water and electricity can be cut off in a moment; the air support from Kandahar can be cut off as well leaving us completely isolated. Yet these young men and women accept all of that as part of what they signed up for. 'We're Marines; it's what we do.' This unit has been stationed here since 2006 and many of the troops here are on their second or even third deployment. Some of them have just now received regulation body armor – up 'til now they've been using leftovers from the first Gulf War. Their morale is high and they truly believe that they can make a difference for the Afghani people despite how those same Afghanis treat them on a daily basis. These Marines amaze me every day. I'm fortunate to have been assigned to their unit.

But enough of my life. Tell me about yours! I want details, details, details from Fashion Week! Photos too if you can sneak any past the boss. I want to know everything about every show and every party you went to. Understood? Good, now I can relax knowing my Paris update will be coming soon.

Give my best to everybody. Oh, and Happy Halloween!

Six

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> andyatnymirror

**To: **mirandaatrunway

**Date: **10 November 0916hr

**Subject: **Thank You

Miranda –

Thanks for the headscarves! The female Marines and I had a good laugh when they were delivered. Speaking of which, who exactly did you threaten to get a member of Congress to hand-carry a box of scarves to me? We all knew the fact-finding junket was coming. Nobody was surprised when the choppers landed and the congressional delegation climbed out. But then I got called over and handed a package – from _you!_

When I got back to our tent, all the women gathered around and we all howled when we saw the scarves. I can honestly say that we are the only unit in Afghanistan sporting Hermès scarves under our helmets! I don't have a clue what it cost you to have them made or what hoops you jumped through to get them delivered to me but all of us thank you from the bottom of our hearts. We're the only designer-scarved Marines in the Corps!

Foot patrols have picked up in the past couple of weeks. There seems to be more Taliban activity in the area and the Marines are out on a daily basis trying to gather Intel on what's going on. So far I don't think they've been too successful, but that hasn't stopped anyone.

Going to have to cut this short. The platoon is heading out again; a local village is being shelled. We're going to see if we can help.

I miss you and the girls.

Andy

* * *

><p><strong>From: <strong>mirandaatrunway

**To: **andyatnymirror

**Date: **11 November 8:42 am

**Subject: **re:Thank You

Andréa, I really wish you would leave military action to the military. You are there to report on conditions in the area and how our continued presence in that country is impacting them. You are _not _there to go haring around the bush playing soldier. Running into a village that is being shelled falls under that category. You are a journalist – wait until the shelling stops _then_ go in and report on the damage. I do not want to have to tell the twins that you've been wounded or worse because you can't remember your place. They have grown very fond of you and it would leave a large hole in their lives were something unfortunate to happen.

Be careful. That's all.

Miranda

* * *

><p><strong>From: <strong>andyatnymirror

**To: **mirandaatrunway

**Date: **11 November 1854hr

**Subject: **Latest

I'm crying so hard I can hardly see to type. Yesterday afternoon, two of the guys in the platoon were wounded when a land mine exploded 10 yards ahead of me. They were medevac'd out but we got word a few minutes ago that one of them died and the other lost his left leg. I can't begin to describe the mood here. I'm praying that nothing else happens for a few days to give everyone a chance to grieve and get over the shock a little.

They were twenty-three and nineteen…

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> mirandaatrunway

**To: **andyatnymirror

**Date: **11 November 9:23am

**Subject: **Latest

Come home immediately. I knew something like this would happen the moment you told me you were going to that godforsaken place. I'll charter a plane to come get you. I'll even get it into Kandahar. Surely you can hitch a ride that far. I'll call and tell Greg that there's been a death in your family and you have to leave. I'll tell him whatever you like. Just get out of that hellhole and come home…

* * *

><p><strong>From: <strong>andyatnymirror

**To: **mirandaatrunway

**Date: **11 November 2016hr

**Subject: **Latest

No, I'm not leaving. I came here to tell the story of these troops and this is part of it. I just hope my articles can do justice to what these young people endure. Living among them has made me very aware that we, as a nation, have a moral obligation not to waste their sacrifices. If we're going to ask them to go in harm's way then we better make sure it's for a damned good reason. I swear to God, Miranda, I'll spend the rest of my life fighting to make sure these Marines and all the others like them don't get sent into danger needlessly. Nobility like this should never be squandered.

So don't charter a plane, I'll be fine. BTW, I meant to tell you…

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> nigelatrunway

**To:** andyatnymirror

**Date: **12 November 1:07 am

**Subject: **Email to M

Six –

Are you all right? I was standing in Miranda's office when your email arrived and she went berserk (well, for Miranda anyway). I will not even repeat what she called Irv when he wouldn't send the corporate jet to get you. I didn't know Miranda even _knew_ some of those words. Apparently, she's done a stint in the Navy none of us knew about because she was cussing like a sailor when that little man said no. And she actually raised her voice when she demanded that Emily charter a plane to Kandahar. Then she cancelled three meetings for the afternoon and spent it on the phone to everyone in Washington she's ever met demanding that they bring our troops home immediately.

Listen, Six; I know I ragged on you to admit your feelings for Miranda and I know that the two of you had started… what…seeing each other (?)… dating (?)… before you left. But I'm here to tell you that the woman is smitten. The only other people in the universe she would have reacted to like that are the twins. So it looks like you're batting in the big leagues, kid. I never thought I'd ever say this, but don't you hurt Miranda. If something happens to you she'll never be the same. You're not bulletproof: don't be reckless.

And don't scare us like that anymore. Not only did you throw off the schedule for the rest of the week but I aged ten years before I got Miranda to tell me that _you_ weren't the one that was hurt. I can't afford enough plastic surgery to un-age ten years yet, so don't do that again, okay? Emily got so pale she looked like an extra from _Night of the Living Dead_ and Serena had to be called in to deal with the fallout when she pitched a major hissy. Apparently there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth in the Ladies.

Be safe and come back to us as soon as you can.

Nigel

* * *

><p><strong>12 November<strong>

**Dear Miranda,**

**I'm still not sure if I've got my feet under me again after what's happened in the past few days, but I've spent a lot of time thinking since I first emailed you and there's something I need to say. I know this isn't the way you're supposed to do this; we should be out to some romantic dinner or holding hands in a carriage in the park. But the best I've got is an airmail envelope so this will have to do. Just me and my trusty Safari pen and the cleanest sheet of paper I can find.**

**I love you, Miranda. You're opinionated, arrogant, elitist and I love you with all my heart. I even love your kids, holy terrors that they are. I know we decided not to make any major declarations before I left; that emotions would be running too high. But I've seen in the past two days how precious life is and how quickly it can be lost. I don't want to take the chance that something could happen and I'd never get to tell you what you mean to me. **

**I love my life but it wouldn't mean anything if you weren't in it. I find myself wanting to call you during the day just to hear you say my name and to tell you the funny thing I saw while walking down the street. To listen while you oh-so-civilly terrorize your staff into excellence they didn't know they were capable of. To watch you with the twins and try not to smile as you roll your eyes when they chatter all through dinner. **

**I love being with you; especially those quiet evenings at the townhouse doing nothing special; just watching a movie with the girls. I don't even mind when Patricia decides to use my leg for her pillow and drools all over my jeans. I want more nights like that. I want more nights with ****you****; nights where we fall asleep tangled up together after making love. I want mornings with you too – waking up to you asleep beside me. Kissing each other even with morning breath. Drinking coffee together in the kitchen waiting for the girls to come down to breakfast. Lazy weekends together when we can manage them. Savoring those precious few moments together when we can't.**

**I love you, Miranda. I love you and I want a life with you. When I get back I want to start working on that together if you're of the same mind. If you're not, I'll spend as long as it takes to convince you of how wonderful we'd be together – the rest of my life if needs be. Even now, when I think about not being there for the Holidays with you and the girls my heart aches. I want to be there for all the days we'll have together; for the birthdays and the Christmases and the 4****th**** of Julys and the Thanksgivings and the Saturdays and all the other days, special and ordinary. For the recitals and the lacrosse games and the Science Fairs and the Junior Class Plays. I want it all, Miranda. I want ****us****.**

**You hold my heart, love. Be gentle with it, won't you?**

**Andy**

* * *

><p><strong>19 November<strong>

**Andréa,**

**I was stunned when I first read your letter. I confess, my initial reaction was 'far too much, far too soon'. But then I thought about that dreadful moment in my office when I read how you lost the men in your unit. How close that was to being you. How my heart stuttered and the terror for your safety flooded through me. How all I could think of was to get you out of there. How something inside me would die if anything happened to you.**

**So now I take pen in hand to answer you. My answer will be a simple one, but one I hope will be equal to the passion in the pages of your letter.**

**Yes, my darling. **

**Yes to everything. Yes to the weekends and the lacrosse games and the Saturdays and the morning breath. Yes to the Science Fairs and the Holidays and all the other days. Yes to the drool and the twins' chatter and falling asleep together and making love and making breakfast.**

**Stay safe, my darling. Come home to us as quickly as you can. We have a life to begin together.**

**I love you too,**

**Miranda**

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> andyatnhymirror

**To:** mirandaatrunway; cassidyatdalton; carolineatdalton

**Date: **28 November 2153hr

**Subject: **Phone Call

You guys are something else! There I was, sitting in our tent talking with a couple of folks about how good our turkey dinner was when my sat phone starts ringing. For a minute I didn't even know what it was! I answered figuring it was the office with some kind of problem with my last transmission but no, it's you guys calling to wish me happy Thanksgiving! How cool was that?

I sure am glad you guys could calculate the time difference because I can never remember how. The paper just told me to send my transmissions on a schedule. As long as I follow it, they seem to get my stories. Before I forget, Cassidy, the attached picture is the sat uplink you asked about that I use to file my stories. You just point the mini-dish at a certain elevation at a certain coordinate (handily furnished by the onboard GPS), plug your laptop into the USB port, upload your story and hit "TRANSMIT". It takes about a minute to sync with the satellite and fire the burst transmission. The solar panels only need to be open half an hour in the sun to fully charge the unit. All in all, it's pretty cool. So far the Mirror has received every story I've filed and everybody's been happy.

Anyway, back to the call. Everybody here thought it was really neat that you guys had a friend who lived on Central Park West and you could watch the Macy's parade from their balcony. I think it's pretty neat myself. I've always wanted to watch the parade but so far haven't been able to. I think next year I'm going to make a special effort to get out to the parade route and watch. You two hooligans think you might want to come along? And your mom too if she wants to. I think we might just have a good time.

And Caroline? I'm going to miss you guys just as much at Christmas. But please don't try to send me anything, okay? The mail services get swamped and I don't want anything of mine slowing down a delivery for somebody who's been here a year and won't be going home for another one. Especially since I'll be leaving two weeks after Christmas. Just keep the presents and we'll have our own Christmas when I get back, okay?

It's getting colder here. Last night we had snow flurries and we've had to break out the heaters for the tents for the first time. I never knew I could get undressed and climb into bed this fast. Believe me freezing your pachongas off is a great motivator!

Alright then. Gotta get some sleep. We're leaving at 'oh-dark-thirty' for a motorized patrol to the outlying villages.

Love you guys!

Andy

* * *

><p><strong>From: <strong>andyatnymirror

**To: **emilyatrunway

**Date: **6 December 1536hr

**Subject: **Life and other disasters

Hi Em,

I'm going to have to make this quick if I'm going to be able to send it in the next transmission burst. We're heading out into the hills in search of a warlord who's supposed to have Intel on Taliban plans for the region and I can't miss my ride.

We had a special treat two days ago when HQ sent us a set of mobile showers. Everybody got to shower with HOT water and actually scrub through the layers of grime that have built up. It was heaven! I even washed my hair – TWICE! Now if only they could figure out how to get some sort of laundry facilities out here in the bush we'd be all set. Just my luck I get stationed 200 miles from the nearest decent dry cleaner.

Emily, you'd adore the climate here – it's so utterly dry you would never again need to worry about your hair frizzing. But one thing would make you stand up and drool: the carpets. Tribal rugs are still woven by the woman of the villages from the wool of local sheep. Since the large rugs have to be woven outdoors, those are only made during the summer months, but the smaller rugs and runners are made the year around and they are spectacular. Unfortunately, the brokers are the only ones that make money from them. The villagers get paid only a tiny fraction of what the rugs sell for. Heck, even if they only got 10 or 15% it would be enough to make them wealthy beyond their dreams. I think the average yearly income in Afghanistan is like $450. That's a _year_, Em, not a week.

Other than that, it's same old, same old. Christmas presents are starting to arrive and that always cheers the troops up. I can't wait to get together with you and Nigel in January and have Christmas. In the meantime, drink some eggnog in my name and we'll get together in a month or so.

Whoops…gotta boogie. My humvee's loading up!

Andy

* * *

><p><strong>From: <strong>andyatnymirror

**To:** lilyatgallery; dougatoffice

**Date: **18 December 1745hr

**Subject: **Christmas

Huge hugs to both of you! I'm so glad you guys can help me out. I can't believe you were both able to get Wednesday off. Remember – the earlier in the morning the better!

Mom and Dad sent me a video they made for me and they said to tell you both Merry Christmas and, Lils, if you go home for the holidays to stop by…

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> andyatnymirror

**To:** mirandaatrunway

**Date: **25 December 0045hr

**Subject: **Silent Night

Hi,

It's just now turned Christmas and I can't sleep. The temperature is in the low 30s and there's a brisk breeze so it feels a lot colder. I was just walking around the camp looking up at the sky. There are about a gazillion stars in the Afghan night. We're so far away from any form of civilization that you can see even the dimmest of them with the naked eye. There are so many stars in the Milky Way that it looks like a snow-covered road in the black sky.

I didn't think I'd feel this down. I mean, I'm surrounded by a great bunch of people, we had a special meal tonight and will have another tomorrow. Heck, we even sang Christmas Carols in the mess hall and a few of the guys had a small DJ setup smuggled in from the base in Kandahar. We had our own mini rave. We got to wave light sticks and dance and generally carry on like normal people for a while. They even had a karaoke contest for which I was one of the judges. Talk about a hoot and a half, LOL!

But it's after lights out and I'm restless. I wish I was home. I know, I know – I will be in less than a month. But that month seems endless. We've had less to do than ever; seems like nothing's happening at all. Gunny Froelich says that's what it usually feels like right before the bottom drops out. He's not letting anybody get slack just because it's Christmas. But that's his job and all he wants is to keep his troops safe.

For my part, I'm not sure how much, if any, good I've done here. I've filed stories on the conditions of the villagers and the obstacles the Marines face on a daily basis. But I'm afraid my stories are all sounding the same. If I can't do better than that by my subject matter then I need to look for a new line of work. I've never lacked confidence in my work before but I'm afraid; I don't want to let these guys down. I want to do justice to their stories.

Hell with it. Morning comes early in these parts and I'd better try and get _some_ sleep. I guess I'm just in one of those moods. You know where I wish I was and what I wish I was doing. Have a wonderful Christmas and know I'm thinking of you.

24 days and counting…

Andy

* * *

><p>The Runway offices were relatively quiet the morning after Christmas. Miranda had come into the office after a late breakfast with the girls. It was an unstated policy that at least one person from each department would put in some time the day after a holiday to insure than any overnight crises were dealt with quickly and efficiently. Emily knew roughly what time to expect her and had coffee waiting.<p>

Miranda settled into her desk and brought up the overnight emails. Not surprising, there were quite a few that demanded her attention. Nigel stuck his head in briefly to let her know that the changes they'd decided on before everyone had scattered for the holiday were being fabricated and would be dropped off that evening in The Book and to ask how her holiday had been.

Christmas had produced a wonderful surprise. Shortly after 9:00 am Christmas Eve morning, two young people had arrived in Miranda's outer office both loaded down with gaily wrapped packages. When Emily had shown them into her office they introduced themselves as Lily and Doug, Andy's best friends, and asked where Miranda would like Andy's presents for her and the girls deposited. They explained that Andy had done all her Christmas shopping before leaving in October and made them promise to deliver her presents for the Priestly clan to Miranda's office on Christmas Eve. They were a delightful pair and Miranda had actually enjoyed chatting with them for a few minutes before they took their leave wishing her a Merry Christmas.

Several security guards had carried the load downstairs for her and Roy had hauled everything inside once they'd arrived back home. Both girls were over the moon at Andy's surprise and spent most of the afternoon shaking all of Andy's presents trying to determine what they might be. To Miranda's amazement, both of them had immediately declared that none of the packages would be touched until Andy arrived back home in three weeks. Then they would _all _open their presents to each other. This in no way hampered the opening of all their _other _presents Christmas morning, however.

Miranda chuckled at the memory and returned her attention to advising the Cavalli workshop what would work best for an upcoming shoot at the botanical Gardens. Things were going well and Miranda thought that with any luck she'd be home by lunch time. But then, midmorning, Emily suddenly appeared in the doorway looking decidedly pale.

"Miranda?"

"What is it, Emily? I'd like to finish this and get home to the girls."

"I've got Greg Hill from the Mirror on line one and he needs to speak with you. He says it's urgent."

Frowning at this bit of news, Miranda picked up the flashing line.

"Good morning, Mr. Hill. What can I do for you?"

"Ms. Priestly, I know you've been in contact with Andy Sachs while she's been overseas. Did you hear from her yesterday?"

"No, I had an email late Christmas Eve but that was the last one." She heard him say "She hasn't either," to someone else near him. "Is there something wrong, Mr. Hill?"

"Andy's missed the last four uploads and nobody's heard from her for thirty-six hours. We're starting to worry, and we can't get any information from the Pentagon."

"Information from the Pentagon? Why would you need… Mr. Hill, what's happening that I don't know about?"

"You haven't been… oh my God, you don't know. Ms. Priestly, you need to turn on your TV. Any of the news channels."

Miranda spun in her chair and grabbed the remote off the credenza behind her desk. Swiveling back toward the bulk of the room, she aimed it at the plasma TV on the opposite wall and hit the power button. She quickly keyed in the channel for MSNBC and as the images flashed onto the screen her heart nearly stopped.

"WE HAVE BREAKING NEWS FROM AFGHANISTAN. THE TALIBAN AND OTHER INSURGENTS HAVE LAUNCHED A MAJOR OFFENSIVE AGAINST US AND UN TROOPS IN KANDAHAR PROVINCE IN AN ALL OUT EFFORT TO TAKE CONTROL OF THE POLITICALLY VOLATILE REGION. EARLY REPORTS INDICATE THE OFFENSIVE IS A TWO-PRONGED ASSAULT CENTERED AGAINST KANDAHAR CITY AND BAGHRAN. WE HAVE UNCONFIRMED REPORTS THAT THE MILITARY AND CIVILIAN AIRFIELDS AT KANDAHAR HAVE BEEN DESTROYED AND US MILITARY COMMUNICATIONS IN THE REGION HAVE BEEN SEVERELY COMPROMISED. AN EFFORT TO SEND A MOTORIZED RELIEF COLUMN TO BESEIGED US MARINES AROUND BAGHRAN WAS TURNED BACK WHEN TALIBAN ARTILLERY SHELLED AND BLOCKED A STRATEGIC PASS THROUGH THE HILLS. AIR SUPPORT FROM THE CAPITAL IN KABUL SEEMS TO BE CONCENTRATED IN THE AREA AROUND KANDAHAR CITY IN AN EFFORT TO ALLOW ENGINEERS TO REOPEN THE AIRFIELDS THERE. THE VIDEOS YOU'RE WATCHING WERE TRANSMITTED FROM A CORRESPONDANT EMBEDDED WITH THE RELIEF COLUMN AND ANOTHER AT US COMMAND IN KANDAHAR. THEY ARE OVER TWELVE HOURS OLD, BUT ARE THE MOST RECENT VIDEO AVAILABLE FROM THE REGION. WE REPEAT, BREAKING NEWS FROM AFGHANISTAN…"

The video was grainy, slightly blurred and made by an unsteady hand. Titled simply "LOOKING NORTHWEST TOWARD BAGHRAN" it focused on distant mountains where fiery explosions could be seen and columns of oily, black smoke spiraled toward the heavens. Then the images switched to Kandahar City where US troops went diving for cover as explosions detonated all around them. Soldiers, firing wildly at unseen enemies covered the medics dragging the wounded to safety. Inside a sandbagged bunker a medic frantically tried to staunch the bleeding from a gaping belly wound.

"Ms. Priestly? Are you still there?" Transfixed, Miranda realized she was still clutching the receiver.

"Yes, yes I'm still here. I was – I'm sorry. Those images were… disturbing."

"I understand, believe me."

"What, what about her satellite phone? Have you tried contacting her?"

"The satellite can't sync with the transponder on her phone. Even if the battery was dead the satellite should be able to sync up. If it can't that can only mean the phone has been destroyed."

"Destroyed? My God! You don't think – "

"We don't know what to think, Ms. Priestly. We don't have any hard information. Listen, what I called to ask is that if you hear from her would you get in touch with us immediately? I'll give you my direct line; someone will be here around the clock."

"Yes, of course. Here's my cell number for you to do the same."

"I'll tell you the same thing I told her parents: try not to panic. We don't have any hard information and communications from over there are spotty at best. We'll just have to call each other if we hear anything."

"Yes, I suppose that's best. Thank you for calling, Mr. Hill." Without thinking, Miranda hung up and turned glazed eyes toward the doorway where a white-faced Emily still stood frozen, now joined by an equally horrified Nigel.

"Call Roy and get my coat. I need to get home to my girls. They can't hear this news on the television." Both her employees nodded as she quickly shut down her laptop and TV. By the time she walked into the outer office Emily was on the phone confirming that Roy was curbside out front and Nigel was holding her coat and bag.

"Go home and take care of the twins. We'll handle things here. Emily or I will be here around the clock to cover the phones just in case. Don't worry; you know Andy. She dances between raindrops."

Miranda tried to smile and failed utterly. All she could manage was a whispered "Thank you both," before her feet were carrying her swiftly down the hall to where Serena was holding an elevator for her. Once in her town car she gave Roy an abrupt order to get her home as quickly as possible and fell into silence as she tried to process the terrifying possibilities.

Her roiling thoughts were interrupted by Caroline's ringtone. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Miranda touched a key and answered. "Yes, darling? What is it?" Her worst fears were realized when a sobbing Caroline responded.

"Mom! We just saw – on the TV! They're bombing where Andy is based! Mom she could get hurt or, or _worse!_"

"I know, darling. I'm on my way home now. Roy and I are on 3rd Avenue at 66th Street. I'll be home in just a couple of minutes. Is your sister all right?" By the time she had reassured Cassidy as well, Roy was pulling to the curb in front of her home. She leapt out of the car and was working her key in the front door lock in a moment. By the time she opened the door the twins were streaking down the hallway and threw themselves into her arms.

Clutching them as tightly as she could she kissed them both and whispered reassurances until they calmed somewhat. She sent them back to the media room while she hung up her coat and tried to control her own fears. By the time she rejoined them her hands weren't shaking any longer and her voice was steady.

It was the longest day of her life. They spent it glued to the TV trying to glean any bit of news they could. By late afternoon, more communications had been reestablished and the 'official' footage being broadcast was even more disturbing than the earlier video shot on reporters' cell phones. A flyover of Baghran showed the bulk of the city in flames. Isolated pockets of artillery fire coming out of the area _toward_ the surrounding hills showed where the determined Marines still manned their firebases.

Reports began to come in of airlifts that had succeeded in dropping ammunition and food to the beleaguered Marines and one unconfirmed report that a pair of CH-53E helos had managed to land and evacuate wounded from a firebase, getting airborne scant seconds before Taliban artillery zeroed in on them.

The longer they watched, the more confident the twins became, certain that if anything had been wrong someone would have contacted them. Miranda, being wiser in the ways of the world, held no such illusions. The longer they went without news the more terrified for Andréa's safety she became.

Dinner was a somber and mostly uneaten meal, despite their cook's best efforts. No one had much of an appetite, even after they'd received a call from the Mirror right before they sat down. There was no further news and the Mirror's editors didn't even bother to hide their concern this time. Miranda was hanging on by a thread, only her iron control allowing her to maintain a steady presence with the twins.

By 10:00 pm the feeling of helplessness was nearly overwhelming. Impulsively, she dialed Roy and requested he pick her up immediately and to her amazement, he replied he was already out front. She told the twins that she needed to go out for a while and to behave until she returned home. Once safely ensconced in the warmth of her back seat she instructed Roy to take her to 5th Avenue and 34th Street. He grinned at the address and nodded as he pulled away from the curb.

As they headed downtown Miranda broke the silence.

"Why were you out front this late, Roy?"

"Emily texted me earlier about Ms. Sachs going missing. We didn't know what to do but we all thought we should try to be prepared for anything. Mrs. Wegmann is staying over in case you need food or people come by, I was planning on being no further than a block away all night and Mr. Kipling and Emily are manning the phones at Runway. That's all we could think of to do to help out."

"Thank you, Roy. I appreciate your efforts."

When they arrived at the specified address, Roy hopped out and opened the door for Miranda. He'd managed to fire off a quick text message to the Security department of their destination while they were stopped at a red light. His foresight was rewarded when the manager on duty held the building door for Miranda and then followed her inside to ease her way to her destination.

Roy looked up at the world-famous façade before he climbed back into the car. The trademark lights on the upper floors were still in their familiar Christmas red and green. It had always been his personal favorite building, even during the period when it wasn't the tallest. Oh, some folks liked the Chrysler Building or Rockefeller Center and others went with more modern architecture, but for him the Empire State Building would always embody everything that was wonderful about New York.

Inside, the manager escorted Miranda through a VIP gate and into a waiting elevator. The operator keyed in his override controls and whisked her up to the 86th Floor Observation Deck. He held the door for her and then locked the elevator out of service until she wished to descend to the lobby.

A waiting security guard held the glass door open as Miranda swept out of the elevator lobby and onto the promenade that circled the building. There were only a few hardy souls about; the wind had picked up and the temperature was in the 20s, driving most sane people indoors.

As she strode around the deck Miranda tried to fight her rising panic. She offered vaguely-remembered prayers from her childhood for Andy's safety, but knew in her heart that she lacked faith in any of them. Finally, coming to a halt on the building's north promenade, she stared out unseeing across the dazzling vista of nighttime New York unaware of the snowflakes beginning to fall. After a long moment, her eyes sought the familiar lines of the Elias-Clarke Building where she had first encountered the beautiful young woman who had so changed her life. Her eyes tracked further north to the blackness of Central Park and as tears rolled down her cheeks, she found herself speaking not to a deity but to the person with whom she had so improbably fallen in love.

_I'm here, my darling, I'm here. I made fun of you when you suggested this place to meet. I laughed at your idea and likened it to a dreadful movie remake. But I'm here. I'm here and I'm not laughing and I love you and I can't lose you; not now. Come home to me, please. You were right and I'm here and I need you. Please, my darling, __**please**__._

She continued her silent plea until the tears slowed and finally stopped. Brushing her gloved hand across her cheeks, Miranda dashed the evidence away and collected herself. Taking one final look out at the city she'd conquered, Miranda Priestly strode back into the Observatory lobby and was promptly conveyed downstairs to the waiting Roy.

Back at the house she demanded that the twins try to get some sleep and ordered them upstairs to bed. She poured herself a glass of wine and settled into the downstairs study. But she misjudged her own stress level and dozed off waiting for the arrival of the Book.

A loud knock at the front door woke her with a start. Mentally cursing employees who couldn't remember how to perform even the simplest of tasks, she padded down the hallway, only noticing the waiting Book on the hall table as she reached the door. She glanced out the peephole and then her hands were frantically fumbling with the locks. Finally, an eternity later, she flung open the door and her knees went weak.

There, swaying unsteadily on her front stoop stood Andy Sachs. Filthy, bedraggled, bloody and battered, she carried a disreputable pack over one shoulder... and was the single most beautiful sight Miranda Priestly had ever seen. The tall brunette turned to throw a wave to the car idling at the curb and stepped into the foyer. Somehow Miranda managed to relock the door and set the alarms before turning back to the vision before her.

Neither spoke, neither dared breathe lest they discover this was only a dream. Every longing, every desire, every hope and wish of the past three months was reflected in their eyes. Finally Andy murmured a single word.

"Hello."

Never knowing who moved first they were in each other's arms. They clung to each other as if to hold the world at bay. Mindless of the filth and the grit and the blood, Miranda ran her hands back and forth over Andy's back savoring the solid feel of her in her arms and murmuring "You're alive, you're alive, you're alive" over and over. Andy, for her part drank in the scent and feel of Miranda's softness like a drowning man drinks in great gulps fresh air. She pressed her lips against Miranda's cheek and forehead and temple and hair, finally claiming the velvet lips she'd dreamed of so many nights. Reveling in their softness, Andy lost herself in the exquisite feel of Miranda pressed against the length of her. Stifling a groan deep in her throat she tightened her arms as Miranda's snaked around her neck and pressed them even closer together as their lips rediscovered each other.

But before they could deepen their kiss further, the thunder of teenaged feet in the upstairs hallway heralded the arrival of the twins to the stairwell.

"Mom! Was that the door?" Cassidy called down. "Was somebody there? Who was it?"

Andy reluctantly broke their kiss. Still clasping Miranda in her arms, she pulled the two of them backward to the stairs then craned her neck upward to find the two redheads above them on the third floor landing. Flashing a grin she answered, "Me!"

With yelps and cries of "Andy!" that rattled the walls, the twins and Patricia charged downstairs and threw themselves into Andy's arms. Andy quickly discovered that she had room in her arms for Miranda _and_ the twins and the four of them held each other tightly as more than a few tears of relief flowed freely.

Finally Caroline commented that not only was Andy filthy but she smelled pretty bad too. Andy laughed and agreed wholeheartedly, then swayed unsteadily as their group hug separated. Miranda slid her arm around her waist to balance her and asked anxiously what was wrong.

"Nothing serious. I've got some sutures in my leg but my biggest problem is that I haven't slept in forty-eight hours. I'm exhausted."

"Then let's get you upstairs into bed."

"Not for a little bit. I need to call the paper. And can I use your laptop for a few minutes?"

Miranda and the girls ushered her into the study where Cassidy booted up Miranda's laptop and logged into their home network. Andy pulled a flash drive out of the ragged pack and collapsed into Miranda's desk chair. Taking the phone, she dialed the Mirror's office and asked to speak to Greg Hill.

"Greg? It's Andy. Yes, I'm back. Well, safe and mostly sound; I caught some shrapnel in my thigh right before they threw me on the helo. Greg, I've been in transit for the past thirty-two hours. Literally running from one plane to the next until I got here. No, I can't. I haven't slept in 48 hours and my brain is like granola. But I'm sending you some files. They're my last reports from the firefight in Baghran and a log of my journey back home. I couldn't file sooner; the uplink, sat phone and my laptop were destroyed in the firefight. If one of the sergeants hadn't thrown me into a sandbagged bunker and dove in on top of me I'd have been blown up too. What was the last report you got? I was afraid of that. Nothing made it out in that last transmission, dammit. Okay, I'm sending you everything from Christmas morning on. I scribbled notes on anything I could find and borrowed laptops from the flight crews to write them up. Then I download the files to a flash drive. I figured sooner or later I'd get to someplace where I'd have enough time to forward the files to you."

As she spoke with her editor she downloaded the contents of the flash drive to the Mirror's composition system.

"How did I get home? You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Seriously? Okay, about twelve hours into the attack two Super Stallions and a couple of Cobra gunships based in Kabul swooped in over the firebase and dropped several tons of supplies to us. Then the two Sea Stallions dropped down and hovered just above the ground while the Cobras covered them. Those pilots were amazing, holding the huge choppers steady even while taking heavy fire. We loaded all the wounded onto those helos in less than thirty seconds. I was turning to go back to my bunker when one of the gunnys grabbed me and literally tossed me into the back of the helo, then threw my pack in after me. Then he signaled the helo pilots to take off. They did and managed to out fly the Stinger missiles they launched after us.

"We landed in Kabul and as I limped off the ramp, another Marine ran up to me asking if I was Andy Sachs and if I was then I was to follow him. He drove me across the field to a C-130 Medevac flight headed for Ramstein AFB in Germany. The medics on that flight removed the shrapnel from my leg, stitched me up and shot me full of antibiotics. I don't know how they did it, but when we landed, another Marine was waiting and drove me across the base to _another_ C-130 flight headed to RAF Mildenhall in Suffolk, England. From there, another C-130 got me to Thule AFB in Greenland. From Greenland I flew to a refueling station in the Azores, then on to MacDill AFB in Tampa, then to Dover AFB in Delaware. Those were all on planes of different sizes. I'd step off one and there would be a Marine to drive me to the next flight I needed to catch. Anyhow, at Dover, they strapped me into another Sea Stallion ferrying some folks to Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn. I landed there an hour ago and a gunnery sergeant driving home to Teaneck, New Jersey offered to drop me off at Miranda's. I got here ten minutes ago. I called you, just like I'm supposed to. You've got my files, now I'm going to bed. I'll call you and set up a full debrief interview tomorrow morning. Do I have to? Dammit to hell, you know how I feel about TV news. Okay, okay but can we keep it down to three on-air interviews? Thank you.

"No, don't bother. I'll call them myself in a minute. Yes, I know. Don't worry, Greg, the files I sent you have more than enough information for you to run with. Photos and video too. Enough; I've done my duty as a journalist. I'm calling my parents and then sleeping for the next eighteen hours. 'Bye, Greg."

Andy disconnected and began dialing her parent's number when the twins came into the study carefully balancing a tray containing a thick BLT sandwich, a cup of fresh fruit and a large mug of herbal tea. Miranda's cook had taken one look at Andy and decided food was a major priority.

"Mrs. Wegmann says you need to eat to keep your strength up." Andy grinned and hugged both of them as she greeted her father. Her call to her parents would have been considerably shorter had not she wolfed down the BLT and fruit as she spoke with them, requiring her to repeat herself frequently. When she had reassured them yet again that she was fine, she agreed to call them back the next day and finally managed to hang up. Borrowing Miranda's cell, she fired off two quick text messages to Doug and Lily telling them that she was safe and sound at Miranda's and promising to call them the next day as well. Then, her duties completed, she allowed Miranda to usher her upstairs.

Andy and Miranda managed to convince the twins that if they'd go back to bed now, they would get the complete, entire and unadulterated story of Andy's past week over breakfast the next morning. Grumbling, they complied, needing only a couple more kisses and hugs from Andy and Miranda to hurry the process along. When they girls had retired, Miranda took Andy into the master bedroom and pointed her toward the bathroom.

"Get in there and shower while I find something to put those clothes in. My God, you don't have _bugs_ do you?" At Andy's assurance that she had avoided lice while in the field, Miranda watched in amazement as Andy dug into the tattered pack and pulled out a vacuum-sealed bag containing a pair of jeans, a pair of boxers and a t-shirt. Andy grinned and explained that as long as she knew she had one clean set of clothes she could endure the conditions at the firebase. Then, she dug out a plastic sac of medical supplies to dress her leg, a small nylon dopp kit with her toothbrush and little else and two MRE meals. Miranda looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

"They're for the girls. They've been badgering me about the MREs since I got there, so I stowed a couple away for them." Miranda just smiled and shook her head.

"The shower's that way. Just press control-F2 on the keypad for a full shower. Leave your clothes on the tile floor: they're not getting near any of my carpets. I'm going downstairs for something to put them in until my housekeeper can decide what to do with them in the morning. Go. Shower." She pointed at the facility and then left the room, closing the door behind her.

Downstairs, she headed for the storage closet where the cleaning crew kept their supplies. She had a vague idea where it was, but had never actually _seen_ it. Finally locating it off the laundry room, she opened the door and stepped into the unfamiliar territory. The closet was well stocked and contained everything she needed. She seized a heavy duty contractor cleanup bag (roughly four times thicker than a normal garbage bag), a couple of tie wraps and a pair of heavy duty rubber gloves suitable for use by EPA Hot Zone HazMat teams. As she turned to leave the closet, she noticed a pair of long barbeque tongs hanging on the wall and grabbed them just for good measure.

Back upstairs, she pulled on the gloves and used the tongs to deposit all of Andy's clothing (boots included) into the bag. It took her a moment to figure out how to use the tie wraps to secure the bag, but she remembered watching one of the grips on a recent shoot bind up cables with one and managed to get it secured. Leaving the gloves on, she used the tongs to pick up the ragged pack and carried everything back downstairs where she deposited them in the laundry tub. She left a note for the housekeeper to deal with the clothing as she saw fit; either launder it or burn it, whichever she deemed most practical. After a moment's consideration, she left the gloves and tongs for Mrs. Grant to use just in case.

She began turning off the downstairs lights as she moved toward the stairs then veered into the study to place a quick call to Runway. Nigel answered and she told him that Andy had returned safely and that he could go home. The relief in his voice at the news was palpable and Miranda promised to bring her to the office the next day so that everyone could see for themselves that she was, indeed, alive and well. Thanking him again, she hung up and proceeded upstairs.

The shower was still running when she stepped back into the master bath and the teasing remark to Andréa for wasting water died on her lips as she realized that this was probably the first real shower the young woman had had in months. Quietly collecting her toothbrush and comb, Miranda returned to the bedroom and grabbed her pajamas and robe and carried everything down the hall to a guest room. By the time she had readied the room to sleep in and returned to the master suite, Andréa had dried her hair and was brushing her teeth.

Commenting that if Andréa was going to insist on sleeping in boxers and a tee-shirt Miranda was going to have a chat with Ralph Lauren and have some done up in silk for her. As the young woman stepped away from the sink, she staggered and Miranda leapt to catch her. That was when she first saw the jagged wound on her thigh. Holding her tightly, Miranda guided her to the edge of the bed and eased her down.

The wound was angry and inflamed. The black sutures holding it closed stood out sharply against the swollen, tender flesh. Miranda noticed that the stitches stopped short of completely closing the wound and asked Andréa if she had broken some of them.

"No, the medics told me shrapnel wounds are notoriously dirty. They left the bottom of it open so it would drain. I've got enough gauze pads to get me into tomorrow, I can pick up some more then."

Miranda gently padded the wound with gauze pads and then used stretchy gauze to bind it tightly. When the first aid was finished, Miranda stood and helped Andréa slide under the covers.

The bed was so wonderfully comfortable that Andy nearly groaned at the feel of it. She desperately wanted to talk with Miranda but she simply could not keep her eyes open any longer. Miranda seemed to understand and merely kissed her softly on the cheek as she settled the covers around her. Andy could only mumble.

"What was that, love?"

"Smells good… like you. Wanna talk but so tired…"

"Then just go to sleep, darling. We can talk in the morning. You're home and safe. That's all that matters. Rest now."

In moments, Andy's breathing had deepened into sleep. Miranda pressed one more feather-light kiss on her forehead as her fingers riffled through Andréa's bangs. _The haircut __**is**__ a good look for her. I really should remember to tell her that._ One more soft kiss then she rose and turned off the bedside lamp. Making sure there was a night light on in the bathroom in case Andréa needed it during the night, she quietly closed the bedroom door and walked down the hall to the guest room.

Twenty minutes later, she still lay wakeful in the luxurious guest quarters. Knowing what her heart needed, she rose and padded back to the master suite. Easing the door open, she looked across the room at the beautiful young woman asleep in her bed. Smiling, she crossed to the vacant side and slipped in beside her.

Miranda had tried not to disturb Andréa but the dip of the mattress must have, because the moment Miranda brought the covers back down the brunette rolled over and drew her into her arms. Nestling tightly against the lanky frame, Miranda reveled in the feel and heat and pulsing life of the woman in her arms.

Andy instinctively burrowed closer and murmured "Love you M'randa," before falling back into a deep slumber and Miranda Priestly closed her eyes to follow, content in the knowledge that this was but the first of the many nights they would fall asleep safe and warm _together._

**The End**


End file.
